


You're Not Special

by MatCauthon



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Diverges from near the end of season 1, M/M, Mental Institutions, Or: the one in which everyone worries about Peter because he's a lost little puppy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatCauthon/pseuds/MatCauthon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan needs to stop Peter from running away, so he comes up with a plan to convince Peter it was all in head. Although the plan goes horribly wrong, Nathan's initial goal is reached; Peter is put somewhere where he can't run away or hurt himself. However, what Nathan doesn't know is that he may have just made everything worse, as the mental hospital's head is secretly experimenting on people with powers and Peter's new roommate is none other than Sylar himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Suicide'

“ **A sick thought can devour the body's flesh more than fever or consumption**.”

― Guy de Maupassant

.ღ.¸¸.•*¨*•ƸӜƷ•*¨*•.¸¸.ღ.

“Leave me alone!”

Peter Patrelli ran as fast as he could, his sneakers slapping the wet pavement frantically, but it was to no avail. How was he supposed to outrun a brother who could fly?

“Peter, please, I promise you I won’t let you hurt anyone.”

Nathan was almost upon him now, his brow wrinkled in concern as he tried to catch his baby brother, who was convinced he had to go far, far away to save everyone. For Peter, even if it meant his own death, at least he could save hundreds of thousands of lives if he went off by himself. But Nathan was having none of it; he was convinced there was a way to help Peter and he’d be damned if he did nothing while his younger brother died. Despite everything that had happened between them, Nathan still loved Peter more than anything.

“You can’t, Nathan. I’ve seen it. I’ll hurt you too.”

Peter finally slowed to stop, crouching over to rest his hands on his knees as he drew in ragged breaths. He was still getting used to his powers, but he figured he may just be able to fly away and spare everyone the pain. Nathan knew it too, but Nathan simply dropped to the ground a few feet away and murmured, “I’m so sorry, baby brother,” in a quiet, guilty voice. The voice startled Peter just long enough for him not to leap away into the skies, and then the voices started.

_“Not real.” “It’s in your head.” “It isn’t real, Peter.” “You’re having a breakdown.” “It is wrong, Mr. Patrerri.” “You’re losing your mind.” “Like your father.” “You’re going crazy.” “Going insane.” “ **Crazy**.”_

Peter let out a gasp at the shock of being plunged into so many similar thoughts, which all unified into the last statement. _Matt_. Matt was making him hear everyone and everyone was thinking the same thing to convince him he was going crazy. It wouldn’t work—it _couldn’t_ , not when everyone had so much to lose from his being here. And yet, the thoughts were relentless and tearing as the people he’d come to think of as friends stepped out of the shadows, the majority of the faces looking tired and sad. Claire, Hiro, Ando, Matt, Isaac, Mohinder, Noah… even Simone. But the worst betrayal of all was Nathan, whose regret and firmness leaked through his thoughts.

“Stop.”

Peter unwillingly fell to his knees, but the thoughts continued to assault him from every direction. He bit down on his lip and pressed his hands against his ears as hard as he could, as if hoping that maybe that would stop the voices. But the effort was in vain, and the voices actually seemed to increase in volume. There was nothing he could do with the little amount of control he’d developed over his powers, so he curled even smaller and resisted the voices with all of his being.

“Oh god, please stop. Don’t, please, _please_.”

A choked sob from Simone barely managed to reach Peter’s ears past his begging and through all the clamour of everyone’s collective thoughts. He caught a fleeting conversation between Matt and Nathan, Nathan asking what would happen if they continued even as Peter resisted and Matt replying that it might break his mind. Nathan’s resolve only wavered slightly, but then it was back in full force and the voices pressed down on Peter so much that he pressed his forehead into the dirty alley ground, quivering with the exertion of holding himself together.

_“You have no powers.” “You’re lying to yourself.” “You aren’t special.” “You’re ordinary.” “You just human being like every other human.” “I’m sorry, Peter, but you’ve been lying to yourself.” “The dreams meant nothing.” “You’re sick.” “ **Mentally ill**.”_

No, no, no. The powers existed. Nathan could fly and… he’d dreamt Nathan could fly. His mind was frantically doing whatever it could to protect itself, even if it meant conforming to the wrongness of the thoughts around him. No matter how hard his spirit resisted, his mind would either go with the flow or break. It was his choice. The loudness was making him so delusional he didn’t notice when Nathan wrapped warm arms around him and pulled him close, whispering that they would make sure he was alright. He could feel rocking, but the painful stabs his friends and acquaintances sent through his head were destroying his ability to sense anything outside of his mind.

“ ** _Stop_**!”

Peter’s howl was an echo that cracked through every person’s mind as his power flared up momentarily, the sound filled with a desperate, animal instinct to lash out, before he let out a coughing sob and began to convulse. Everyone abruptly stopped thinking at him and ran to Nathan’s side in concern as Peter’s body jerked up and down as if a puppet master was messing around with the strings, and foamy spittle leaked from his lips.

“Matt, what’s going on?”

Nathan’s usually composed voice was filled with a jarring fear, his face pale and his eyes rimmed red with anxiety. Matt tried to say something but it came out as unintelligible gibberish, and then he should his head and swallowed thickly, his response low and strained.

“His mind went past the breaking point. I don’t… I don’t know what’ll happen. I—I’ve never heard anything like it. He’s resisting with everything he has but…”

Matt stumbled over his words, shaking his head and stepping back with a wince as if being near Peter was physically painful.

“For god’s sake, call an ambulance.”

Simone was the first to obey Nathan’s shaky command, bolting to the mouth of the alley to make the call on her cell. Nathan, meanwhile, clutched Peter to his chest, repeatedly smoothing back his brother’s hair and whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here. I’ve got you.” No one was quite accustomed to such a gentleness from the politician, but it wasn’t much of a big deal compared to what they’d done to Peter. Despite the fact that they’d done it to protect him, everyone was feeling guilty that they were making him believe he had a mental problem. They all knew what it was like to feel like they were going crazy, and now they’d just made it a whole lot harder for Peter to deny his craziness. If his mind didn’t break from this, his heart most certainly would.

“They’re on their way.”

Simone returned from the mouth of the alley and crouched down to caress Peter’s face. He had stopped convulsing, and now his eyes flew open and he bolted up with an energy that shocked everyone. His eyes were frantic as he searched their faces, and everyone backed up to give him room as he climbed to his feet.

“Peter? Are you okay?”

Peter’s wide eyes turned to Nathan, who was holding his hands out cautiously as if Peter was a wild animal that would lash out if someone got too close. Peter’s lips twitched and his face seemed torn between anger and confusion as he reached up and dug his fingers into his hair, tugging at it as tears of frustration welled up in his eyes.

“I’m not crazy. I didn’t dream it. It’s real. I can fly.”

His sentences were short and choppy as he peered at the faces of everyone around him while they exchanged concerned glances. The last option was to have the Haitian wipe Peter’s memories, but since that was a permanent thing, they’d wanted to avoid that. Yet if they kept pushing, who knew what Peter would do. He looked to be on the brink of madness, as his face kept contorting and smoothing out again, his mouth working to say something. Nathan took one step towards to Peter to try and comfort him, and suddenly Peter was gone. Not like invisible man gone, either.

“Shit. Where did he—”

“I told you I’m not crazy. I just bent time and space, and now I’ll _prove_ that I can fly.”

Nathan’s face went even paler as he looked up to see Peter standing on a roof above him. It was like a flashback to the time he’d thought Peter was crazy and suicidal, only this time he knew his younger brother was neither. He supposed they’d just have to get the Haitian to erase his memories. Trying to convince Peter—whose mentality was already fragile from all he’d been through—that he was going crazy was probably a bad idea. Nathan drew in a small breath and crouched to jump in case Peter couldn’t control his powers, but Peter noticed and shook his head.

“No, Nathan. I can do it on my own.”

“Pete—”

 **BANG**.

Before Nathan could even fully speak his brother’s name, Peter’s body was smashed and broken on top of the dumpster that had been beneath him. _No. Not like this. Not Peter_. Simone was screaming and Claire was running to Peter’s side as Nathan stood rooted to the spot. He’d just forced his younger brother’s hand, and though he’d known Peter would do something stupid and dangerous like always, he’d done it anyway, because he hadn’t expected something quite this drastic. It had been to keep Peter safe, but still, this was—

“He isn’t healing. Nathan, he isn’t healing, he’s bleeding out! Oh god, he isn’t breathing!”

That shook Nathan from his reverie and he bolted to the dumpster, climbing up and completely disregarding everything else except for how to stop the blood that was pouring out of Peter’s neck. Nathan stripped off his tie and pressed it against the wound, meeting Simone’s horrified gaze. _Think, Nathan_ , _this is_ Peter’s life _we’re talking about_.

“Start doing chest compressions. Someone get to the mouth of the alley and wait for the ambulance.”

It was the best he could do. Claire held Peter’s head and neck steady while Simone pumped his chest and Nathan pressed the tie tightly against the wound. It wasn’t squirting, so it wasn’t the carotid. That was good, right? _Peter isn’t breathing_. It was most likely the jugular vein, which wasn’t as bad as the carotid artery, so maybe he would be alright. _I’m his big brother, I was supposed to look after him._ The ambulance was called a while back so it should be there at any second. _The job of older siblings is to look out for their younger siblings._

The ambulance pulled up in a roar of sirens and flashing lights, and heavy boots alerted Nathan to the ambulance drivers arriving on scene. There were shouts to grab the stretcher and questions thrown around, the majority of which were answered by Matt. In the end, they said one person could ride in the ambulance with Peter and the general consensus was Claire in case Peter needed her close by to use her powers. Nathan watched them go with a distant air, answering every question thrown at him until the ambulance was gone in a flash of red and blue.

It was only when he was in the car with Noah on his way to the hospital that he broke down in sobs, and the sobs didn’t end for a good long while.

 _I killed my baby brother_.

 


	2. Sylar

“ **Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.** ”

― L.M. Montgomery

.ღ.¸¸.•*¨*•ƸӜƷ•*¨*•.¸¸.ღ.

“Mr. Petrerri?”

The voice was low and cautious at Peter’s ear, and Peter stirred slightly, wincing at the pain that lanced through his body.

“Oh! Mr. Petrerri! You okay!”

The excited voice sounded familiar, but Peter couldn’t quite put his finger on it. His eyes cracked open just slightly to see a round, bespectacled face hovering above him, childish almond-shaped eyes sparkling. Peter wanted to sit up and ask the man what was going on, but his entire body felt weak and achy, especially his parched throat.

“You know who I am? Okay, okay, two brinks for yes, one brink for no.”

Did Peter know this man? He looked so incredibly familiar, but no matter how hard Peter tried to think through the haze in his mind, he couldn’t remember a thing. He remembered talking to Nathan yelling from somewhere far below while he stood near the edge of a roof, looking down. Then he had started stepping forward, as if to step off of the roof. Why had he done that? He was certain about the fact that he didn’t want to die, yet if his last memory was to be believed he might’ve tried to commit suicide. No, that couldn’t be it. Who was this Japanese man, anyway? Peter blinked once.

“Oh no. Not good. You hit your head very, very hard on garbage bin. You remember accident?”

One blink.

“You remember jumping?”

One blink.

“You remember… secret powers?”

A hesitation, then one blink.

“I see. Frying ma—Nathan be happy about this. Mr. Bennet was going to put you away in cage but Nathan said ‘No, we just erase memories.’”

Peter swallowed thickly, trying to work up enough saliva to talk. Mr. Bennet? Cage? Erasing memories? He had absolutely no idea what the bouncy little man in front of him was talking about. He turned his head just slightly to take in the room. A hospital, pretty standard. One bed (probably courtesy of Nathan’s money) and a curtain slightly drawn, but not so much that he couldn’t see the door. He squinted at the sign outside of the room, his lips moving a little as he read it, then his eyes widened. _Psychiatric Ward_. No, he wasn’t crazy. He remembered his mother telling him about his father, but he couldn’t have the same thing. He was normal.

The Japanese man saw him looking at the sign and let out a sigh as Peter turned imploring eyes back on him, a question in them.

“You think you fry, Mr. Petrerri. You can _not_ fry. You just normar human being.”

He had thought he could fly… A flash of pain in his head and then he remembered the dreams he’d had of flying with Nathan. Yes, he had thought he could fly. So did that mean he’d tried and it had failed? No, no, no, that couldn’t be right. He was supposed to be able to fly. Why was he here? A steady beeping near his head grew faster and the Japanese man took a worried step back. The heart monitor continued to rise as Peter panicked, lifting one hand weakly to try and remove the IV in his arm.

“Nathan says he very sorry. For you own good.”

Then the man completely disappeared. Peter was so shocked he froze, his mouth hanging open, until suddenly the room was swarmed with nurses and a doctor who were all talking so much Peter couldn’t even begin to decipher what exactly was going on. He shrank back against the bed as a nurse came up to him with a needle, reaching out to take his arm. His arm jerked back as much as he could get it to, and he let out a low, rough noise of protest in the back of his throat.

“Peter, it’s okay. With your brother’s help, you’re going to get the best care you can.”

Peter shook his head frantically at the nurse’s voice. He didn’t want the best care he could get, he wanted to leave and go home. But he was too weak to protest or move much as the nurse inserted the needle into his arm, and then a warm feeling spread up through his veins and he fell into unconsciousness.

**ღ*~*** **ღ*~*** **ღ**

“—another cellmate?”

“Yes… —kill this one—”

“Depends on—”

“Well I’m saying don’t!”

The door slammed and jerked Peter back into consciousness. The first thing he noticed was that the hospital smell of antiseptic and sterilization was gone. His eyes fluttered open and he gingerly sat up, wincing at a pain in his arm and abdomen. He reached down to lift his shirt slightly, and frowned at the bandages wound around his ribs. He must’ve broken a couple then. He was also apparently one handed for now, seeing as how his other hand was bound in a cast and sling.

Once he’d made sure the rest of his body was okay, he took the liberty of glancing around the room he was confined in. It was small and simple, with both walls and floor padded. There was a desk that he assumed was bolted to the floor, and on it there was some paper and a couple of crayons. One of the strangest things about the room, however, was the fact that there was what looked like a huge glass window beside the door. He’d obviously figured out he was in a mental hospital, but what mental hospital had a huge window? Couldn’t a patient use the glass once he’d broken the window?

“It’s Plexiglas. You won’t be able to break it.”

That finally drew Peter’s attention to something he’d been desperately trying to ignore; a second bed. One with a man sitting on it. Peter let his eyes drift over the man before he answered, moving back slightly. The man sat with an easy grace on the edge of the bed, brown hair slicked back impeccably and a slight shadow of stubble dusting across his cheeks and chin. He wore a slight smirk as he watched Peter, and his eyes said he was interested in what kind of person Peter was. Deeper than the interest, there was a coldness that made a cold sweat break out on the back of Peter’s neck, and a cruel calculating that made Peter feel like the man across from him considered him no more than an insect. Despite all that, he was undeniably attractive. Not that Peter cared at that particular moment.

“So what kind of power got you thrown in here?”

The man’s voice held a careless tone in it, but Peter could see he really was attentive. Peter wet his lips and worked up enough spit to talk, though his voice still sounded hoarse and rusty.

“What do you mean?”

The man moved so fast Peter wondered for a second if he was quite human, and then he had one hand on Peter’s bandaged throat, squeezing with a force that took Peter’s breath away.

“The first rule of being my cellmate is not asking stupid questions. The second is to listen to what I have to say and never ask me to repeat myself. I won’t give you lenience a second time. We’re in mental hospital, and this ward is specially made for people who have powers. These rooms were specifically crafted so that no one, including even me, could use their powers once they were contained. Thus, I know you have a power so there’s no use playing dumb. Now, I’ll ask once more and this will be the last time I ever repeat myself. What kind of power got you thrown in here?”

Peter choked, gasping as the man let him go and stepped back. His throat and lungs burned for air and he drew it in gratefully, pressing one hand against the side of his neck, which throbbed as if the wound would reopen at any second.

“I… thought I… could fly.”

His words came out between wheezes, and much as he wanted to glare at his cellmate, he had a feeling if he did it would be the last act of defiance he ever performed.

“Flying?”

The man relaxed as if nothing had even happened, letting out a happy-sounding laugh as he looked Peter over with a large grin.

“That’s _quite_ useful.”

An animal instinct made Peter move against the wall, pressing his back into the padded material as the man stepped forward and began reaching towards Peter’s head. He didn’t see how this man could hurt him, but there was something familiar about this scene and there were alarms going off in his body and head. He had time to say one more thing, and if it wasn’t satisfactory he’d die.

“I’m hurt because I can’t.”

The hand paused and the man’s face visibly fell as he dropped his hand to his side, muttering, “Oh,” with an almost childish bitterness. Great. Peter was stuck in a padded room with a crazy guy as a roommate. A guy who believed in magical powers and would probably kill Peter at the slightest provocation. Weren’t there supposed to be cameras in the room? Peter searched the ceiling and spotted one in the corner, pointed straight at him. Somebody had to have seen what had happened. So they just didn’t care?

“I heard they were bringing in normal people to compare the results to those of special people, but I never thought they’d give me one as a cellmate. I guess they got tired of my killing everyone they brought in.”

The man went to sit back down on his bed, and Peter felt like he’d just avoided a bullet. He’d only been up for at max ten minutes, and already he’d almost died twice. If this was what every single minute of the day would be like, he didn’t know how he’d survive without actually going insane.

“I’m Sylar, by the way. If I’m going to be stuck with you, you may as well amuse me. What’s your name?”

Sylar… the name made Peter freeze and a dull ache pounded at the back of his head. He couldn’t remember why the name should mean something, but a voice inside of him said that this man was extremely bad news. Peter hesitated, but seeing as how he was going to be stuck with ‘Sylar’ for who knew how long, he may as well try to get on the man’s good side.

“Peter.”

He left out the last name, not wanting to mention it in case Sylar had heard of his brother and the danger his name brought to Peter’s mind had something to do with that. Sylar yawned and glanced at the window peering in to their confines. Peter looked up and saw two men in lab coats observing them and writing things down. There was something ominous about them, something that made him feel like he might have even bigger problems than Sylar. Sylar laughed low in his throat and turned to Peter again.

“Peter… we’re going to have fun together. You can bet on that.”


	3. Join Me (or die)

“ **He didn’t know what was defeating him, but he sensed it was something he could not cope with, something that was far beyond his power to control or even at this point in time comprehend.** ”

― Hubert Selby Jr.

.ღ.¸¸.•*¨*•ƸӜƷ•*¨*•.¸¸.ღ.

True to his word, Sylar amused himself by quizzing Peter about things in his life, as if he took some sick, twisted pleasure in probing at the wounds of a person everyone considered crazy and suicidal. He asked Peter about his mother, and Peter told him his mother was an ordinary, nice woman. He told Sylar the same went for his father, and that he didn’t have any siblings. He didn’t want to give the man any way to find out who he was. Normal life, normal education, normal boring old job as a nurse. Finally, Sylar seemed to get annoyed about the normalcy of Peter’s life, and his voice grew slightly louder with an edge to it.

“If your life was all rainbows and butterflies like you seem to be implying, why’d you try to kill yourself?”

Peter’s eyes flashed indignantly as he sat up straighter, a glare finally making its way to his face.

“I told you, I thought I could fly. I didn’t try to kill myself.”

Sylar rolled his eyes, pulling his feet up to lay back on the bed with his arms behind his head. Peter could tell he was getting bored with the whole thing, and that made Peter nervous. Who knew what the unpredictable man would do once he decided Peter was nothing more than a waste of bed? If Peter didn’t give him something, that could be it for his entire life. His existence would be extinguished if for no other reason than the fact that he was depressingly ordinary. Peter took a deep breath and leaned forward, his good hand resting loosely on his knee as he finally told a truth he’d held back for a long while.

“Ever since I was young, I thought I was destined for something big. I couldn’t quite figure out what, so I went into nursing because I thought maybe I could save the world, one life at a time. But then I started having these dreams, ones where I could fly, and suddenly I just thought I could. I don’t know why, and I know it sounds crazy, but I just wanted to feel…”

Peter trailed off, dropping his head miserably. Here he was, stuck in a mental hospital, confiding in an insane stranger who could kill him in a moment’s notice, and he had the audacity to suggest he was important. So much for doing something huge with his life—he should’ve ignored the dreams and stuck with nursing.

“…special.”

Peter’s head jerked up as Sylar finished the sentence, sitting up once more and leaning forward, his eyes sparkling as if he really had discovered something cool.

“Your parents lead boring lives, and you didn’t want to be like them, right?”

Peter nodded and caught himself leaning forward too, despite his body’s aching.

“I wanted to be more. I _knew_ I had to be more.”

“And you could be… you could break the cycle of ordinary and become extraordinary.”

“I had powers, ones that made me better than everyone else. Powers that made my life full of meaning.”

“And with them, you could…”

“I could…”

“ _Change the world_.”

They spoke the last three words at the exact same time, and for a moment Peter felt so in sync with the man across from him that it was as if they’d lived the same life, had the same thoughts. Sylar _understood_. The desire to be greater, and the inexplicable need to prove that he wasn’t the mundane son of his mother and father before him. Peter even caught himself half-grinning, until Sylar’s excited expression slipped away to reveal one of smugness and pride.

“We may think alike, Peter, but without real power, you’re nothing but an inferior being.”

Peter’s eyes dropped along with his heart. For a second, he’d actually been hopeful about maybe getting along with his cellmate, but Sylar was nuts. He debated asking Sylar to demonstrate this so called ‘real power’ but Sylar had said the room was one that stopped him from using his powers. Convenient.

“If you really can use powers, I guess you’re right.”

Peter let out a small sigh as he turned away to lay with his back to Sylar, looking blankly at the wall. He didn’t real feel tired, but anything beat sitting here talking to a psycho.

“You do understand, though, so how about I offer you a chance to become a part of what will be the new world?”

Peter gingerly turned so he was lying facing Sylar.

“What do you mean?”

“There are people who know about my powers, who can do things to stop them. If I had you to get close, though, you could ruin everything for them. How about it? It’s a fair trade; you help me and I let you live.”

Considering the fact that there was really no way to leave this place whether you had powers or not, Peter nodded in acquiescence if only to stop Sylar from killing him. It wasn’t like anything would ever really come of it. Sylar grew quiet then, rolling his eyes to the ceiling thoughtfully, and Peter took it as a dismissal. He closed his eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

 **ღ** ***~***   **ღ** ***~***   **ღ**

The sound of the door being violently thrown open was loud in the small room and Peter jerked awake immediately, sitting up as masked men entered the room. He scrambled back and Sylar rolled his eyes, shooting him a look that said ‘Really?’ Apparently Sylar wasn’t all that bothered by it, even as the men inserted a needle into Sylar’s arm and he dropped into a limp heap on the bed. For Peter, they didn’t bother; one of them simply grabbed his good arm while the other one grabbed his shoulder, and they steered him out the door. He glanced over his shoulder to see them strapping Sylar to a gurney, and he felt his blood go cold. What were they planning to do with the two?

“Peter Patrelli. Delusional, possibly suicidal. Thinks he can fly.”

Peter did his best to calm his racing heart as a sensible-looking doctor stepped in front of him with a clipboard, looking him up and down. Was it possible he was just being taken to an appointment with a psychiatrist? But if that were the case, they wouldn’t have loaded Sylar on a gurney and wheeled him out.

“I know that was stupid idea now. I… I can’t fly. I was wrong and I can prove it if you just give me a few sessions with a therapist.”

The doctor barely spared him a glance, just waved his hand for the men holding Peter to take him away. Peter’s body still wasn’t up to speed so his struggles were pitiful, but he struggled nonetheless. The hallways he was being led down looked nothing like any mental hospital he’d ever imagined. The lights were dim in that horrible way that confused a person’s eyes so their pupils were constantly dilating and contracting, the walls and floors were made of a horribly dull gray metal, and every few feet there was a large window like the one near his room. Some windows showed truly disturbing scenes; apparently one cellmate killing another wasn’t nearly as uncommon as it should be.

“Where the hell am I?”

Peter’s horrified question hung in the air, unanswered, as they finally reached the end of the hall. The door opened and Peter wondered how it was possible for things to look grimmer than they did now, but what lay behind the door proved things could always get worse. The lights were a hundred times brighter than in the hall, so his eyes immediately stung when he was dragged into the room. He held up his good hand to block his eyes as he was led to a… glass box? Yeah, that’s what it seemed like. A glass box large enough for one person to stand in.

“Put him in there. I don’t care if he doesn’t have powers, we need to take the proper precautions, and I want a controlled environment so no external factors can affect my results.”

A severe-looking woman with her hair pulled sharply back from her face spoke brusquely, gesturing to Peter and the box. Even as Peter let out a yelp while he was thrust into the box, she didn’t give him a second glance. She was much more interested in Sylar, who was brought in after Peter. Her eyes grew soft and hazy, but it didn’t seem to have anything to do with Sylar as a person. More like she was interested in something Sylar had… DNA? Actual powers? Good reactions to experiments? Peter didn’t know, but he figured it was something along those lines. She seemed the type to love science over people.

Sylar was loaded into a glass box next to Peter, still unconscious. He slumped against the side as they shut the door, then the lady scientist went over to a panel and typed out some sort of command. There was a beeping sound, then some sort of yellowish gas entered Sylar’s box. Peter gulped, looking around his own, but it was completely free of the stuff. Satisfied that he was safe for now, Peter watched Sylar curiously, wondering what kind of gas they’d administered. A couple of minutes gave him his answer—Sylar woke up and seemed to lose his grogginess within seconds. He stood and stretched languidly, cracking his neck as he offered the scientist a smile.

“When I get out of here, I’m going to rip your intestines out and hang them around your neck like garland.”

His voice was completely matter-of-fact as he said it, and the scientist lady’s jaw tightened. Peter wondered if provoking her was the best choice of action; after all, she more or less had complete control over what happened to them. But then her anger turned to smugness as she walked primly up to Sylar’s box and raised an eyebrow at him, a small, derisive snort falling past her lips.

“Good luck, Mr. Gray. I can guarantee you getting out of here will be the last thing you do, though.”

Sylar’s face suddenly contorted and he slammed a fist into the glass so hard it rattled from top to bottom. Peter had thought he’d been mad when Peter had questioned him, but now he realized that was nothing compared to the withering look he gave the scientist.

“It’s _Sylar_! Don’t you dare belittle me, you inferior piece of shit. Unevolved specimens like you have no right to even kiss my feet.”

Peter blinked slightly as he felt something akin to warm water wash over him. He turned in confusion, wondering if they’d put something into his box, but there was nothing to be seen. Yet he could feel the warmth washing over him in waves, reverberating throughout his body from his toes to his fingertips. It reminded him of the way he’d felt in his dreams when he was going to fly. Was it some sort of mental thing? His head began to ache and he pressed a hand against it, letting out a low moan.

“Dr. Pravus, I don’t mean to interrupt but there’s some sort of anomaly going on with Subject 112.”

The lady scientist—Dr. Pravus—turned to her assistant with a frown, making her way over to where he was pointing at the screen. Peter looked up blearily through the pain to catch Sylar watching him with open curiosity. As strange as it was, he could feel Sylar. He could feel Sylar and a whole bunch of other people in the ward, and something within them was emanating out to him. _Too many_. The words passed fleetingly through his mind as the pain grew worse and the warmth began to grow to a scalding hotness.

“I don’t understand. This level of power… it’s insane. Is it his?”

The assistant shook his head, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“No. As a matter of fact… it’s everyone else’s.”

Peter coughed wetly into his hand, and when he drew it away there were flecks of blood dotting his palm. As bad as he felt, the power flowing through him made him feel as if he could do anything he wanted to. As if he could become a god.

“Turn up the muting device to maximum. Now!”

Peter’s coughs grew more bloodied and painful until all he could taste was the metallic tang of blood. He needed to get out of here. He gritted his teeth against the pain and stood tall, gathering the hotness crackling through his being. If he could send it all out in a wave of power…

“Peter, that’s enough.”

A quiet voice stopped him and he turned his head a fraction to look into Sylar’s eyes. Sylar seemed to have figured something out, and he seemed slightly amused. He pressed his hand against the glass, shaking his head. How could Peter have heard him through the box? It didn’t make sense—the boxes looked soundproof.

“You’re not meant to handle power. You said it yourself—you got hurt because you thought you could fly. I don’t know why all this power is coming to you, but if you try to use it when you aren’t special, you’ll die. You agreed to be my sidekick, so listen to me.”

Sylar was right—Peter wasn’t special. He couldn’t remember ever having powers besides in dreams. The power flowing into him must not be meant for him, then. He wasn’t special. He was just crazy, and this whole thing was probably a hallucination Sylar was playing along with.

_“You just human being like every other human.”_

An accented voice rolled through his head sounding like the man who’d disappeared in his hospital room. It was accompanied by others, all basically saying the same thing; he was crazy. Mentally ill. He dropped to his knees, sweat beading at his brow as Dr. Pravus’ assistant dialed something up. The hotness faded and he was left feeling nauseous and empty.

“That’s enough for today. I don’t know what happened but we obviously can’t do pain receptor treatments until later. Sedate them both, take Subject 112’s blood, and put them back. We’ll try again when we figure out what’s going on.”

Dr. Pravus waved her hand dismissively, looking sour at the fact that she hadn’t been able to do… ‘pain receptor treatments.’ God, that sounded horrible. Her assistant flicked a switch and a greenish gas began to fill both Peter and Sylar’s boxes. This time Peter was almost thankful when he dropped into unconsciousness.


End file.
